19 by 19Max Winter
The weather is dull today though there is no evidence of that. Not much presented from where I sit. Black, white, something else. A grid, all lines pointing towards a tiny center. The space between lines grows greater towards the edges as if a finger pressed down on the city’s heart, if there is such an organ. If you get too close you can see swimming pools, parking lots, colonnades, lampposts, side streets, thoroughfares, industries, cars leaving, cars entering, cars making illegal turns, and the occasional person, or rather the occasional head, in motion, like everything else. The parks’ location is clear: patches of grey interrupted by squibs of pond-from-above. Buildings of the same shape travel in packs towards or away from the center, houses of the same shape spill outwards, possibly ingratiating themselves to people on their way somewhere else. This is all fascinating but cannot explain the inexplicable areas of dark near the center, areas that must be quite large in my crude conception of scale. They are dark with white flecks poking up, like grains on blank parchment— in reverse. All somewhat circular, edged by incomplete shapes: a square with three corners, an oval with a point, a rectangle after a brush with a celestial hatchet. Two of these spots, to my count, though the more you look, you will see the picture is full of such areas, only of different sizes and one thinks different degrees of significance. Though extrapolation like this is painful because needless, it is probably safe to say, given the empirical evidence, that the city is not at its best, that best is in the distance, vanishing as you approach it.
Max Winter Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2021, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|